“My wife says I have 'trust issues.' Why should I believe her?” – Paul S., Newark NJ

Dear Paul,

Women will sometimes lie. This is perfectly normal! It only means that they're alive, which is a legal requirement for marriage in the state of New Jersey. Indiana, I'm not so sure. Had a couple of weird nights there. But – necrophilia notwithstanding, your lack of faith may be the result of a deeply repressed childhood trauma – one that your wife had absolutely nothing to do with. (Or so she claims.)

I once had a girlfriend by the name of Kate Black. Our relationship was built upon mutual trust and honesty, though the usual suspicions were occasionally aroused: I must confess that I once watched over her shoulder as she typed an email – an email in which she twice referred to me simply as her “friend” and three times to herself as “Miriam Feinberg.” The context is unimportant now, but as I think about it, there was some contention as to the definition of our relationship and I never did get a good look at her driver's licence. 

You see, the emotional baggage you carry from your port of departure can exact a very unreasonable fee en route to the destination of a healthy relationship. And if you're fond of airline analogies, remember that they're using that machine to look at your penis.

Paul, I'm led to believe that you've had some painful experiences with women in your past. We've all been there. I want to tell you that with therapy, self-inventory exercises and plenty of “you” time, it is possible to overcome that trauma – and also that it's equally possible your wife is a conniving slut who's out to bend you like Gumby over a kitchen chair.

Unfortunately, we often learn of the worst when it's too late. A girl I loved dearly once made me breakfast in bed. It was a real spread: Coffee, bagels, french toast, scrambled eggs. But I took one sip of orange juice and the next thing I knew, I woke up in Mexico City missing a kidney. “Drink up!” she said, as I faded out of consciousness. “No pulp!” 

In fairness, I should have suspected something when it arrived in a hypodermic syringe. Also, I'm not so sure that thing she kept putting over my face was a napkin. 

But there I was – disoriented, bewildered and in tremendous pain. I found a note in my pocket instructing me to rush to the nearest hospital. It also asked if I could pick up some skim milk on the way home. 

I was stunned, shocked, alone and petrified to die. Worst of all, I couldn't find anything less than 1%. 

We went out for a while after that, but I didn't feel the same inside. Later, I found out it was because I had a Reuben sandwich where my kidney used to be. 

Tijuana?

Levenson

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